623 Boscobel
by Whiskey Frogs
Summary: Avery and Scarlett were the original tenants, but almost everyone in the Nashville universe has a connection to the bungalow on Boscobel. Whiskey Frogs is a collaboration of Nashville fanfic writers who have gotten together to tell their stories.
1. Chapter 1

Hello Nashville fanfic readers!

A group of fanfic writers have gotten together to write a collaborative story that reframes season 5. The idea is to rework storylines to take them in directions that feel more authentic and honor story canon in a way we feel makes more sense. The following writers will be participating in this collaborative effort:

sunnyyellowhouse

yellowcottondresses

Bettakappa

Skiddy2002

Calculated Artificiality

Occasionally participating will be piratewench78.

This story is NOT a part of the S5 rewrite and will stand alone, but we do hope you enjoy what we're putting together and would love to hear your thoughts, ideas, and what you like.

For this story, chapters 1&7 written by sunnyyellowhouse, chapter 2 written by Calculated Artificiality, chapter 3 written by Bettakappa, chapters 4 & 6 written by yellowcottondresses and chapter 5 written by Skiddy2002.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Callie Khouri and NashvilleCMT. We own nothing, we're just borrowing.

* * *

"This it?" Scarlett tapped her finger on the window, pointing at the brick bungalow with a For Rent sign tacked up on the fence in front of it.

"Think so." Avery let the truck drift, easing closer to the curb before he threw it into park. "First impression?"

She glanced at her boyfriend, watching his eyebrows furrow as he peered over her shoulder so he could see out of the window.

"I don't like the color," he said, no longer waiting for her to give a response. "What color would you call that? Tan?"

She turned back to the house and actually considered the color of the paint on the house and the fence surrounding the yard. "Khaki? Taupe?"

"I don't like it." He repeated the words as he pulled the door handle and opened his door. "And the rent's high."

He walked around back of the truck and Scarlett got out just as he stepped up on the curb. "Give it a chance," she said, almost pleading. "Please."

"I will."

She knew it wasn't a promise about the house so much as it was an agreement to stop fussing for the time being. They'd been looking for three weeks. Not a particularly long time but as they'd already been staying with JT and his roommate for a couple months, their hunt seemed to become more urgent with each passing day. Avery's friends were magnanimous, allowing them to stay in the cramped two-bedroom apartment for free as long as they chipped in on beer and pizza. She was thankful to have a roof over their heads after moving from Mississippi but there was only so much pizza a girl could eat. Not to mention the fact that she was living with three men. Men who stayed up until all hours planning for their big break. Men who left dishes in the sink, dirty drawers on the floor and almost always forgot to put the seat back down in consideration of the only female in the house.

Scarlett was ready to move on, into something she and Avery could call their own. But for some reason, Avery had been ridiculously critical of every place they'd seen so far. Sometimes his reasons were valid - too small, bad neighborhood, no place to practice. Other times she thought he was just being picky - too many windows, ugly floors, smelled like ranch dressing. Every time he rejected an apartment she'd doggedly continue searching, sneaking in the stock room during her shifts at the Bluebird to scroll through Craigslist ads. She was determined to find a place where she could soak in a tub after a long day on her feet without worrying about someone banging on the bathroom door, a place where the constant smell of _maleness_ didn't linger in the air like fog. And Scarlett swore if she never ate another slice of pizza in her life, it'd just be too soon.

Avery led the way up the stairs and she followed behind, praying this one would meet his high standards. He went for the door, rapping on it with three knuckles. She hung back, noting the air conditioner jutting from a front window. She walked a few steps towards the corner of the house, squinting up at the gutters. When she turned around Avery was looking in her direction, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Deacon told me to check and make sure the gutters were okay," she explained. She didn't tell him that her uncle had offered them a room at his house. He wouldn't charge them much and probably wouldn't even be there that often, but she knew Avery would never go for it. Scarlett wasn't so sure it was a good idea anyway. They'd spent years in dorm rooms and were now sharing his friends' space. It was time for them to have their own home.

" _Are_ they okay?" His tone was half earnest, half mocking but she forgave the teasing because of the crooked grin that came with his words.

"I reckon," she said, smiling back up at him.

"Oh, well then it's settled. We'll take it."

The door swung open as Avery said the last of the sentence. They both turned to stare at the man standing there, grins sliding off their faces as he looked at them with a dour expression. Slightly pot bellied and balding, with a pair of glasses perched on the end his nose - he reminded Scarlett of her 8th grade math teacher. Mr. Feldstein wore the same types of pullover sweaters, sometimes getting chalk on his forearms as he wrote algebraic equations on the board.

"You here to see the apartment?" He frowned at them and shook his head a little as if he were answering his own question.

"Uh, yes, sir." Avery recovered, sticking his hand out to shake the man's hand. "I'm Avery Barkley and this is my girlfriend Scarlett."

"Girlfriend?" The man repeated the word as if he'd never heard it before. He took Avery's hand, all the while staring at her as she stood on the bottom step of the porch.

It made Scarlett feel unsure of herself, just as she had any time she got called on in 8th grade math. She stood frozen until Avery turned around and motioned his head at her. She forced her feet up the stairs and offered her hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Scarlett O'Connor."

The strength of his grip surprised her, just beyond firm and right on the edge of punishing. She pulled her hand away, shaking it a little as she let it rest by her side. Avery moved in close to her left; she could feel the heat of his arm next to hers. He hooked his pinkie around hers, squeezing it gently between the folds of his finger. Scarlett didn't know if he was trying to reassure her or make a good impression on the landlord, who clearly didn't approve of their relationship status. _If only he knew_ , she thought. She didn't much approve of their relationship status either. But now wasn't the time to do anything about it. Avery wasn't thinking marriage. At least not before his career took off. That was his big dream. The entire reason why they'd packed up and left Mississippi for Nashville. He had the talent. All he needed was a chance. She didn't mind being patient.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Mason and let them inside, leading the way from the door into the entry area.

As soon as she stepped into living room, she knew. This was it. She could feel it in her bones. They followed Mr. Mason into the bedrooms, the bathroom and the kitchen and everything she saw made her love the place even more. She thought the small kitchen was adorable. The bathroom was a good size and she could already picture their bed (her bed actually) in the larger bedroom.

Avery pulled her to the side. "I can see the stars in your eyes but I don't think this is right for us." He rolled his eyes and she could guess what he was thinking. Whatever shade of paint Mr. Mason had bought for the exterior and fence had surely been on sale. All of the walls on the inside of the house were a similar sandy color.

"We haven't even seen the whole thing."

He put a hand on his chin, running his fingers over the hint of a beard. "I don't know, Scar. Rent's gonna be tight. And I don't think the landlord even likes us."

He'd whispered but she still checked over his shoulder to see if Mr. Mason had heard. "Let's go check the yard," she said, taking his hand. "And then we'll see."

They left Mr. Mason inside and went out the back door, still holding hands. The yard was large, with a fire pit and a driveway that lead to a back street. But more importantly, there was a garage.

"It's perfect," she said as they took in the dark space that held a few mismatched chairs and a stack of paint cans near the back wall.

Avery looked at her as if she'd told him she wanted to use it as their bedroom. "Perfect for what?"

"For you, Silly. You can practice here. If we clean it up a little bit." She pointed at the ceiling. "We can hang up some lights and use these chairs. It's plenty big enough for the drums. There's an outlet over there so it's wired."

He pulled his keys out of his pocket and jiggled them in his hand; the metal made a noise almost like a tambourine. His expression changed and she knew he was thinking it over, hopefully seeing the same possibilities she did.

She kept her mouth shut, letting him mull it over. She'd learned that it was best if he thought decisions were his alone but her mind was made up. There was no way to explain the peace that came over her when she walked through the front door. This house was meant to be theirs. Stardom was his lifelong dream but _he_ was all she wanted. She knew marriage was years away but this would be a step closer.

He tucked his keys back in his jeans, nodding his head slowly. "We'd have to paint."

Scarlett squealed and jumped into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck in a tight hug. "Of course we will." They'd paint the rooms and hang up his posters and buy a proper set of silverware for the kitchen. Maybe she'd start a garden in the back. She would sow love into the house for as long as they were there. This is where she would wait.


	2. Chapter 2

When he looks at her, he still sees the little baby he held in his arms just hours after she was born. When she speaks, he still sees the way her red face would contort into a soundless cry on her very first day in this world until his voice soothed her with a soft hush and a made up lullaby. As he sang, her eyes would flutter closed and she'd sleep peacefully again. When she wears her eccentric hats, he still sees the first tiny hat she ever wore, pink and blue, pulled tightly over her little head, still sees her yawn and stretch and kick her tiny legs as she made unintelligible sounds. He'd never seen anything that small, never seen anything that fragile, never seen anything that magical.

Rayna was with him, as she always was back then—they'd driven through the night to get there—and as he looked down at his baby niece in his arms, out of the corner of his eye he saw Rayna watching them quietly. When he turned to look at her, she had tears in her eyes and she was looking at him like it was the first time she'd ever truly seen him. She'd stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, then leaned in and whispered to him, her breath sweet in his ear: _I love you, Deacon Claybourne_. And there he was, standing in a hospital room with the two women who would teach him things he'd never known about love, and about letting go.

Scarlett was always a good baby, from the minute she was born. She was so quiet sometimes that you'd forget she was there until you heard a gurgle or a half-cry. She didn't learn to talk until she was three years old, when everyone started to wonder if everything was okay. She said her first word on her third birthday, ' _more_ ,' and then she didn't speak again for three weeks. It was like she was saving her voice for something that mattered—like if she made too much noise someone might know she was an accident, someone might know she wasn't really supposed to be here.

As Deacon carries in the boxes now, he sets them down and then stops to watch as Scarlett directs the rest of the motley crew she's gathered with promises of pizza and beer and Deacon wonders just how in the hell he missed it. Her long blonde hair catches on a breeze and her long flowing skirt moves with the same wind and he wonders how it is that she could _possibly_ be the same little girl who'd squeal and run to hug him around the knees every time she saw him, the same little girl who refused to let go until he'd twirled her around until she was so dizzy she could hardly stand. The little girl who used to sit on his lap and strum a banjo, the noise grating and beautiful all at once—how did that little girl with her serious face and sad eyes grow up and become a woman? A woman moving in with her boyfriend and without a ring, no less.

Deacon's mother would be rolling over in her grave right about now—" _Is that how y'all do it up in Nashville_?" She'd asked him with not-at-all concealed disdain nearly two decades ago one Sunday when Beverly had let it slip that he was living with Rayna in a tiny little one bedroom apartment in a not-so-nice part of town. " _Yeah, Mama,"_ He'd said, shaking his head as he kissed her on the cheek, _"That's how we do it up in Nashville."_ His Mama had found her strength after his father had died, and Deacon couldn't help but forgive her for everything she'd allowed to happen to them.

Scarlett's hum breaks him from his reverie and she floats past him, hanging her beat-up banjo on the wall and Deacon thinks that he hasn't seen her this happy since the day she graduated from Ole Miss.

"You've got too much stuff, girl," Deacon says, tapping the box he just set on the floor with his boot.

Scarlett smiles at him, "I know," Her strong southern drawl pops through and she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, "Most of it's Avery's." She shrugs, then spins on her heel and walks through the door, back to her little car that carried her all the way from Natchez, Mississippi.

When she'd called him and told him she was moving to Nashville, Deacon had begged her to let him buy her a new car, something safe and sturdy for the drive—but Scarlett wouldn't hear of it; she just kept clucking her tongue and saying, "This car's got me everywhere I need to go, I reckon it'll get me to Nashville just fine."

And so it had.

Deacon sees Avery pull up in a moving van, watches as the young man shifts into park, climbs out, and hugs Scarlett tightly, spinning her around in a small circle as her heels lift off the ground, her skirt floating out behind her as she tosses her head back and laughs. When she's back on solid ground again, she rises on her tiptoes to kiss him. It's sweet, innocent, but Deacon can't help the surge of protectiveness that swells through him at the sight. He's known guys like Avery before, guys with long hair and a wandering eye with more than a dash of arrogance thrown in. For a quick minute, Deacon _was_ one of those guys. Until Rayna.

Deacon walks into the sun, making his way down the walkway until he stands in front of them. He shields his eyes with his hand and clears his throat until they break away from one another, Scarlett looking sheepish, Avery looking slightly panicked. If all being Deacon Claybourne got him was the clout to intimidate his niece's musician boyfriend, he'd certainly take it.

"So," Deacon says, looking at Avery, "I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to tell you that if you hurt my little niece, I'll kill you."

"Uncle Deacon…" Scarlett says in warning, but there's laughter in her tone.

Avery shifts his weight, casts his gaze to the asphalt beneath his feet, "I won't, sir."

Deacon considers him, waits until Avery raises his gaze to look him in the eye; he sees the fear there—sees the insecurity Avery tries to hide from the rest of the world, but he also sees the truth. Whatever else Avery is or isn't, he's not out to intentionally hurt Scarlett. That's enough for now because like most things, it has to be.

"You can call me Deacon," He says, reaching his arm out and clapping Avery on the shoulder, smirking as he watches the relief wash over the younger man's face before he unlocks the back of the moving truck and rolls it up.

"Give me a hand with this couch?" Avery asks, stepping into the back of the van.

Deacon nods, and steps up into the van, surveying its sparse contents. He sticks his head around the side and peers at Scarlett, "There's only one bed in here."

Scarlett sighs, "Don't tell Mama, she doesn't need to know I'm _living in sin_."

"Darlin'," He laughs, lifting the end of the couch as Avery grabs the other, "Ain't we all."

When the furniture is moved in and the friends have all departed, Deacon sits on the couch, the sun setting in the Nashville sky the pastel hues painting the room with light. He looks at Scarlett, her legs draped over Avery's as he strums his guitar; she hums along, and there are two near-empty bottles of beer on the coffee table and he's overwhelmed by the sight. For the first time in a long time, Deacon is reminded what it is to be in a love you don't have to hide or bury under any number of valid excuses; to be in love when you're young and the world is sprawled out before you, full of endless possibility and chances to take. He wonders if he should feel sad, but he doesn't—he can't. He hasn't lost that love no matter how hard he tried—it's still there, under everything.

"Can I give you my demo?" Avery asks, suddenly stilling his fingers on the guitar.

Deacon drains the last of his bottle of coke and raises an eyebrow, "What kind of music is it you play again?"

Avery's eyes light up, "It's like an alternative country—kind of punk but it's more cerebral." Avery answers, setting his guitar on the stand next to the couch. He stands up and searches through a box marked ' _Avery music_.'

Deacon chuckles as he stands and slips on his jacket, "You know, around here… punk is code for can't play at all."

Scarlett giggles, but her eyes go soft and glassy, "Oh, Avery can play," She says, tucking her legs underneath herself on the couch.

Avery's hand shoots up in triumph and he spins on his heel to face Deacon, "Just give it a chance," Avery says, holding the CD out to Deacon, "Please?"

Deacon sighs, but reaches out to take the CD, "Alright," He says, shrugging before he turns to Scarlett. He snaps his fingers like he's just remembered something, "Oh, by the way, you start at the Bluebird day after tomorrow – 3pm, sharp."

Deacon watches as Scarlett's face goes blank as the words sink in—when they do, she smiles, jumps up from the couch, and squeals, throwing her arms around him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," She says, her voice high pitched. She's squeezing him tightly, rocking him back and forth.

And suddenly she's four years old again, and he's overwhelmed with love for her. For the little girl she was, for the young woman she is.

"Don't thank me," Deacon says, "Just show up."

"Of course I will," Scarlett says, walking him to the door. "And _thank you_ ," Scarlett says, looking him in the eye, "For everything."

Deacon smiles, and he knows she's not just talking about today.

As he makes his way to his truck, he can't resist turning to look at her one more time—she's standing in the doorway, backlit by the light they'd turned on when dusk started rolling in heavy. She looks tired and happy, grinning as Avery comes to stand next to her, his arm around her shoulder.

Scarlett waves as Deacon gets in his truck and starts it up. "Bye!" She calls over the rev of the engine.

Deacon raises his hand and waves back at her, tossing Avery's CD on the passenger's seat as he drives away. As he makes his way down the Nashville roads he's come to know and love so well, he can't help but think about his niece—about how brave she is, about how she came to Nashville for a boy, but how she'll find herself instead. Deacon knows Nashville has a way of doing that—of leading you down the path you were always meant to follow, even if you don't necessarily want to go. She'll do big things, his little niece.

He doesn't know whether Avery will make it in this business or not, whether he will break Scarlett's heart or not—Deacon knows more than anyone what the darkness in another person can do to a woman full of light, but he hopes it never comes to that for Scarlett and Avery. Deacon hopes only happiness finds them in that little place they will come to call home.

But Deacon can't help but wonder what stories the walls of 623 Boscobel will have to tell in the coming years; he wonders what secrets it will keep, what screams it will swallow, what tears it will catch, what joys, what fists it will bear.


	3. Chapter 3

Gunnar's heard all the cliches.

He is a songwriter, after all.

He knows that the early bird gets the worm, that the grass is always greener on the other side, and he knows when one door closes, another door opens.

What he's just figuring out now, though, is that when you open another door, you've got to close the one you're in.

That's where he is right now, standing at the gate of Nashville's house of revolving tenants. He blinks with his guitar in one hand, other hand locked the door knob and even though he told Zoey he'd meet her at the Bluebird in twenty minutes, there's something about the finality of this moment that is stalling this very simple process.

There are one or two boxes left on worn living room floor, the sun illuminates the stray dust particles to provide a sort of melancholy backdrop that Gunnar just can't look away from. The emptiness in between says the rest, like a scene straight out of a country song.

Fitting.

A country song is the cause of all this because _of course it is_. Ball and Chain, another cliche turned smash hit. Only this time the hit came from his pen, and his guitar, and his late-night hotel pool writing session with Scarlett….and there's so much going on in his mind right now that represses that last thought for another time.

It's a song about attachment, about the inevitable lines people cross when commitment turns into resentment. If drama is the ball and chain to their fame, this house is the ball and chain that tied them all together.

Gunnar knows it's time cut the chain, to move on. Avery's married to Juliette freaking Barnes for goodness sake, and Will Lexington is opening for Luke freaking Wheeler. Usually, the million dollar royalty check with his name on the line is enough of a metaphorical pinch to remind him that he actually, finally, kind of made it, too. He's got a beautiful new home waiting for him on the other side of town with a girl whose peppy, springy brown hair isn't quite the same as the uncontrollable yet angelic blonde mane that he used to obsess over from afar.

There it is, thoughts of her again. A lot of his memories here are rooted in Scarlett, the shy, yet powerful foundation of this little bungalow on Boscobel Street. She was in love with Avery...so Gunnar hated him. She was related to Deacon...so Gunnar respected him. She was welcoming to Will...so Gunnar welcomed him too. She unknowingly formed Gunnar's first impressions of too many people, but luckily this place was here to course-correct it.

Because if there's any antidote for first impressions, it's memories.

He makes the mistake of blinking and the old home is alive again. Gunnar's there, and his hair is a little bit puffier, his eyes are a little bit more innocent, and his smile is a little bit sweeter, and that's all he needs to see to know that this is a peek back into the past when he was a little bit younger. Jason is there too, and Gunnar can't believe his eyes. They're on the couch arguing over the lyrics of a bug in his head, just like they used to when they were boys from Texas with pasts no one cared about. In the doorway, Gunnar squints, dying to soak it all in while he can because the moonlight is reflecting on the double-hung window just right and damn, he forgot how _similar_ they looked.

Another blink. Now, his hair is frazzled and dirty and _why does he keep measuring time through his own hair?_ He and Avery burst through the kitchen opening into the living room. The same hands that write beautiful songs about love are colliding with the same mouths that let it all out. Scarlett is screaming words that don't make sense as the men tumble around screaming things that make even less sense. It's completely ridiculous to watch years later, and Gunnar can't help but put his guitar case in front of his face to hide the chuckle from the ghost versions of himself and his best friends.

He felt heartbreak for the first time, with a lonely engagement ring clutched in his hand, crying against those kitchen cabinets. He learned to love again, kissing Zoey for the first time on that couch. Hell, he kissed _Will_ for the first time on that couch.

His name isn't on the lease, he's not really sure who's semi-famous signature is on the line at this point to be quite honest, but he realizes that he's attached to as much of the drama as everyone else who's shacked up on Boscobel.

This place wasn't just a time capsule. It was a time machine.

Because in three years, maybe he'll drive by the house and not even remember that was the little place where he felt the fullest in his life with the cute girl from the Bluebird who would change his life forever.

Or, maybe he'll see a couple of kids throwing a football in the front yard and pretend not to care, ignoring the remains of his own youthful personality that were lost on that same lawn after stumbling home from identifying a lifeless Jason in a lifeless morgue.

But he's pretty sure he'll just smile and linger for a moment. The door won't need to be open for him to see the good and the bad, to hear the millions of guitar strums that created a welcoming melody for the outcasts like Avery Barkley, the new guys like Will Lexington, and the reality stars like Layla Grant. Forget wood and concrete, he'll feel the thousands of jam sessions that _really_ held up this house. The first place that ever felt like home for the music nerds like Gunnar Scott. And with a small smile, Gunnar shuts the door.

You never forget your first.

Look at that, another cliche. He can already hear the next hit.


	4. Chapter 4

The definition of awkward. Zoey used to think it was dating your best friend's ex, but it wasn't until the first night she spent with Gunnar that she realized –

Oh no, Life told her. Oh, you sweet little innocent soul.

Life can always be more cringingly, horrifyingly, _deliciously_ awkward than that.

Like sleeping with your best friend's ex in the same bedroom – in the same bed – where he'd up until very recently been having sex with your best friend.

Yeah.

Before Gunnar bought the house, she told herself the reason she rarely stayed the night was because she didn't want to give him the wrong impression. She liked him – might love him – but she liked her own independence more. A Mississippi preacher's daughter finally striking it out on her own in the big city, with a new life and a new look and a new boyfriend, gave her more than enough reasons to be excited to wake up in the morning. So what if her dreams hadn't come true just yet? They would. She just had to be patient.

And remember the reason she came to Nashville in the first place.

Back home and in college, she knew plenty of girls who threw away their big dreams and high hopes whenever a guy came into the picture. And they weren't stupid, either – these girls were smart, educated, going places. And yet somehow, all that ever defined them was the fact that they either had a man, or they didn't.

She came to Nashville to get a record deal. To make music. To change someone's life with music. To be a star.

A boyfriend wouldn't change that.

But – and this was where she cursed her women's studies courses in college and began to rue the day she ever decided to declare herself a feminist – the real reason she had such a hang-up (Gunnar's words) over spending the night at her boyfriend's shitty rental house was less…self-righteous than she was willing to admit.

She was sleeping with her best friend's ex. In the same house where they lived together as a couple. In the same bed where they…

Nope.

(Except for all the times they DID.)

So when he bought the house and officially moved out of the apartment, Zoey waited for a sense of relief she hadn't realized she'd been hoping for.

They were out of that house. She would have a whole new set of walls and a roof around her when she and Gunnar spent the night.

She had never been so thankful for plaster and drywall. Ahhh, the revelry of a home that did not know the history of other happy couples that had come and gone the way of the dinosaur and dodo bird.

So what if it was still the same mattress her boyfriend and best friend had…christened? Zoey gritted her teeth and told herself to employ a saying she had heard her mother repeat many times as a child, a mantra from before she could remember:

"Put on your Big Girl Panties and _deal with it_."

That phrase rings through her head like a chorus as she boards her plane, ticket clutched in hand. It echoes through her as the pilot announces they're clear for take-off, and when she feels the lurch of the plane's massive wings defy gravity and take off into the cloudy winter sky towards a place where seasons are a whispered myth, like Narnia or Santa Claus. Where smog may blot out the sun, but it's still there on your shoulders, dusting your skin like it's trying to grab you before you slip away.

Zoey turns her mother's phrase over and over again in her mind, the entire flight to Los Angeles. On the way, she wonders when she let herself become One Of Those Girls. The girls who gave up everything for the sake of their relationship. The girls who sacrificed their dreams for the sake of someone who could never make them come true.

The girls who didn't measure themselves by the weight of their own ambitions.

The first night in Los Angeles, she stayed in a cheap motel. The room smelled like cigarettes and gym socks, the walls sweating as the paint peeled and the roar of the interstate could be heard from directly outside her window.

Zoey woke up the next day, and began making plans.


	5. Chapter 5

Will drove into the driveway and put the truck in park. He looked out the windshield at the house in front of him and sighed as he sagged down into the leather seat. 623 Boscobel Street. He had so many memories of this place. The last time he had been here was just after Jeff died. Man, time was funny. Some days it felt like an eternity since that happened and other days it seemed like yesterday. He still had trouble believing that Jeff was gone. It didn't seem right. There were days when he actually missed that smarmy grin.

Layla had been devastated by Jeff's death so Will had come by to be with her. In all honesty, he needed to be around people himself. The same night that Jeff had died Kevin had dumped Will in the back alley of the bar where Will had been performing. Between her grief and his heartbreak, he hadn't thought much about being back at the house. Today was different. Layla was moving out, and Will had come by to help her pack up. It was kind of the end of an era. New people would be moving into the house, so this was most likely the last time Will would ever be here.

Will felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him as he thought back on the time he spent here. The thing that stood out most for Will was his friendship with Gunnar. It had started right here. Will smiled softly as he recalled the first time he met Gunnar. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that Gunnar would end up being the best friend he had ever had. To think it almost ended before it even started. Will shook his head slightly as he remembered trying to drunkenly kiss Gunnar. After years of encasing himself in an emotional suit of armor, he had made a mistake. In that brief moment of vulnerability, Gunnar had managed to slip past his defenses.

Will let his head fall back onto the headrest as he thought further back. As a seventeen year old kid out on the street, he had learned the hard way not to trust people. Sure there had been some kind souls that had helped him along. He never would have survived otherwise. But, as a general rule, you learned pretty fast not to trust, and you definitely learned to hide anything that made you different. Being gay was hard anywhere but being gay in Texas was impossible. So he had built his suit of armor, rivet by rivet, steel plate by steel plate until he was impenetrable. Or so he thought until that drunken kiss with Gunnar.

He thought sure that he had ruined everything, assumed that Gunnar would shun him, hate him even. But Gunnar had surprised him and managed to make a dent in his precious armor. Gunnar was one of the first people to see past the fake Will to the person hiding in the background. Will closed his eyes. God, how he had hated himself back then. In the darkness behind his eyes, Will saw a train light speeding towards him. He quickly opened his eyes and gasped as his heart raced. If it wasn't for Gunnar, he would be dead by now. He knew this as sure as he knew his own name. It had only been a matter of time before he waited that one second too long to move out of the way of the oncoming train, and that moment was fast approaching as he pushed himself to stay on the track longer and longer. But Gunnar had knocked some sense into him. He would never forget Gunnar coming to find him, telling him to never do something like that again, to talk to him if he felt that bad, imploring him as a friend, a true friend, the first one he'd ever had. There was no way Will could ever repay Gunnar for what he had done.

Will swung his eyes toward the house again and his thoughts wandered to Layla. Will sighed as he thought about his time in the house with her. Unlike his memories of Gunnar, he wished he could change his memories of her. Will closed his eyes again in remorse. That had been a particularly bad period in his life. What he had done to Layla was reprehensible. She was just a kid, and he had taken advantage of her. Deep down he knew that he hadn't intended to hurt her. In his self-loathing, his twisted mind had convinced him that he was doing a good thing. Layla loved him and in that love was his salvation. Marrying a woman would force the gay out of him. Her love could fix him, and change him into the man that he wanted to be. It was amazing what desperation could make you believe. Of course, it had all come crashing down spectacularly. Layla's love hadn't fixed anything. He still wanted Brent, and nothing could make those feelings go away no matter how hard he tried. So he cheated on his wife not only with Brent but with another woman. Will groaned, that was definitely not one of his finer moments. Layla had believed that there was something wrong with her. He hadn't been man enough to tell her the truth until things had gone way too far. Layla had almost died because of him. She deserved so much better from him. He couldn't blame her for retaliating against him the way she had. It was a miracle that they had found a way to be friends after everything that happened between them.

Will let his head fall back on the headrest again as he screwed his eyes up tight. _Please Lord let me learn from my mistakes_. He had another chance with Kevin. _Please don't let me screw it up like I screwed up before_. At least his relationship with Kevin was built on the truth instead of lies. That was a huge step in the right direction. Just like Gunnar, Kevin had seen through fake Will. He snorted at the memory of their first meeting. Kevin had not only seen through fake Will but had pushed him aside like he was made of air. Kevin had no patience for fake Will. He smiled; maybe that was why he had fallen in love with Kevin.

There was a loud bang to his left that caused him to jump and bump his head against the roof of the truck. "Hey Cowboy, are you going to help me pack or just sit in your damn truck all day?"

Will turned startled eyes towards an obviously angry Layla and stammered, "Oh, ah, yeah, sure."

She glared at him as she crossed her arms over her chest, "Good because those boxes sure as hell aren't going to pack themselves."

Will studied Layla carefully as he got out of the truck. She seemed pissed but he knew her pretty well and knew that she often used anger to hide behind. Layla's eyes were always her downfall. No matter what her body language may say her eyes always told the truth and right now they were glistening with hurt and unshed tears. Will had spoken with Avery and knew what had transpired between them and what Layla had done to Juliette. As he stood there, his heart broke for her. He couldn't be angry at her for what she had done. Maybe it was because his guilt was still fresh in his mind, he didn't know. But whatever the reason, his heart went out to her and by extension his arm which wrapped around her waist and pulled her into a tight embrace. He hugged her wishing he could take all her pain away and make her whole again.

When they finally broke apart, Layla looked up at him as the tears ran down her face. She graced him with a broken smile and said, "Thanks."

Will brushed his thumbs against her cheeks to wipe away the tears. "How about we go inside and tackle those boxes. They aren't going to pack themselves you know."

Layla laughed as she hooked her arm through his, "Yeah, let's do that."


	6. Chapter 6

It was Layla's idea to use the old moving boxes.

The day after Jeff died, Will spent the night breaking down all of the boxes Jeff's hired movers had already packed up. He dumped them all in the bed of his truck and stored them in Gunnar's hall closet, because good moving boxes like that were always good to have on hand. They stayed there for months, and everyone forgot about them until Layla was packing up what little of her life she found still littered the house, remembering with a flinch the dozens of boxes Will had kindly made disappear while she tried to sleep off the nightmare of waking up alone in that Atlanta hotel room to the cops banging on her door.

He offered to help her move, and it wasn't like she had friends lining up to offer, so yesterday they took apart her bed and had the Salvation Army come get the dresser and nightstand. They'd also gone through the closet, which was stuffed with so much old junk they couldn't remember which stuff belonged to them, or if some of it had been left behind by Gunnar when he lived here, or even Scarlett and Avery. Most of it was broken or useless, but they did manage to find a brand-new frying pan, a laptop charger, a portable DVD player that still worked, and, inexplicably, an unopened bag of brightly-colored pom-pom balls.

She held up the bag to Will, who inspected it thoughtfully.

"I'll give this to Gunnar," he told her. "He'll know what to do with this."

Layla made a face. "Good call."

She was cross-legged on the hardwood, separating the box of miscellaneous kitchen supplies into different boxes she and Will had gathered from the liquor store down the block. Everything she'd toss was set aside in the one labeled Bacardi; the things she would drop off at the Goodwill on Dickerson in a box of Beringer. The third, smallest one used to hold Jameson, but now it was empty, save for a small make-up mirror she'd found under the bathroom sink.

She stared at the label on the box. The other night she and Will had packed up the back of his truck with six large black garbage bags worth of stuff they'd deemed not worth donating to Goodwill. Most of that was what they had cleaned out of the living room and the top shelf in the hallway closet. They tossed it in a dumpster behind the office building that housed Highway 65

It wasn't until she was packing up her bedroom that she realized how little she'd actually _lived_ here.

The couch in the living room was Gunnar's, which he'd left it here when he moved out. Her nightstand and dresser used to be in Zoey's apartment before she took off for California. Most of the kitchen stuff was a gift from Avery's parents when he first moved to Nashville. Even her mattress was a relic from when he lived here with Scarlett, in the usually-vacant second bedroom where Avery once stored his guitars.

Even after she and Will got married, the only thing they added to the house was a big screen TV Will had mounted on the wall of their bedroom. He left that behind when he moved in with Gunnar, but when she was putting her clothes in empty liquor store boxes she called him and said that if he didn't come and pick it up that night, she was going to put his still-under-warranty, thirty-two inch plasma screen TV out on the curb, and some Metro Nashville garbage man was going to be very happy when he made his morning rounds.

The flotsam and jetsam of someone else's life; was all this house ever was. She could rearrange the furniture and it still wouldn't cover where the years had stepped.

The day she moved out, she left the place fully furnished.


	7. Chapter 7

Avery had never heard of a play date. "This is a thing?" he'd asked. "People actually make dates for their kids to play?" His wife had assured him that yes, it was a thing and in fact, their daughter had one set up that she had forgotten to reschedule. And since Juliette had agreed to go to a video shoot with Maddie, it was left to him to drop Cadence off to see her newest best friend, a girl she'd met in her pre-ballet class. As far as he could tell, the only thing the 3 and 4 year olds did in the class was twirl and giggle. He'd taken a hundred pictures and videos of Cadence in her pink leotard and bun, twirling, giggling and falling down. Her balance had gotten slightly better near the end of the class.

Juliette had texted him the address before they left the house and he realized he didn't even need to map it. The little girl, Ava, lived on Fatherland Street in a neighborhood Avery had once lived in himself. Her house was literally right around the corner from the rental that had been his first real home in Nashville. It'd been a few years since he'd been there and he thought of taking a detour and driving past but then changed his mind. He hadn't been inside that house since storming out on Layla and that was a memory he didn't necessarily want to relive.

He dropped his daughter off to play with her friend, an adorable brunette with glasses and dimples in both cheeks. She and Cadence squealed as if it'd been months since they'd seen each other and not just the few days since the end of class recital. His baby girl didn't even wave as she scampered off into the house.

"I'll be back in a couple hours," he called out after her, hoping she'd come back for a hug. She didn't. He suddenly wondered if it was foreshadowing how he'd feel when she grew older and didn't need him to drop her off with her friends or, God help him, when she started dating. He wasn't ready.

Ava's mother cast him a look of sympathy and invited him in for lunch. She'd been expecting Juliette, who would usually hang out while the girls played. The women had also hit it off during the dance class and he'd seen the startled disappointment in her eyes when she opened the door to him and not his famous spouse. He begged off, telling her the truth, that he and Cadence had just eaten. Not that he would have stayed anyway. Wasn't his play date.

He left, once again nearing the Boscobel intersection. On impulse he turned down the street, unable to quell his curiosity. _It wouldn't hurt to just drive past_. He neared the house, slowing his SUV so he could take a good look at the familiar bungalow. There was a sign tacked to the fence and Avery shook his head before he even read it, assuming it was a For Rent sign and the curmudgeon of a landlord was looking for tenants again. It was almost as if the house had a revolving door. A second glance and he saw that the sign was marking it for sale.

He idled in the middle of the street, gawking at the house and didn't even notice the woman walking by until she crossed his line of vision and set another sign down on the sidewalk. Open House, it read. 2-4.

He waited until she had the sign adjusted so it could stand before calling out to her. "Excuse me. Mr. Mason selling the place?"

She shook her head, giving Avery his second sympathetic glance of the day. "Unfortunately he passed away. His son inherited but he doesn't want a rental."

Avery suddenly felt bad for thinking of his former landlord as a curmudgeon, even if it were true. A month hadn't passed that the old man hadn't reminded them that he'd taken a chance on renting to a young, unmarried couple. All the talk about his generosity only made handing over the hard-earned rent money all the more painful.

The woman, who he guessed to be the realtor, checked out his late model SUV and then motioned to the house behind her. "It's a nice house if you're looking. There are two units but you could convert it back to a single family if you wanted."

He shook his head, already tensing his foot to lift it off the brake. "Nah, I was just passing by. Figured I'd ask when I saw the sign. Thanks." He waved before pulling off.

He definitely wasn't in the market for a house. He and Juliette had only recently sold the Belle Meade mansion after having a home built on the farmland she owned. It had been her idea. She'd wanted something designed with their family in mind, something that belonged to both of them before the first brick had been laid. As they'd moved in a mere few months ago, the house still had that "fresh paint" smell. He reasoned that that might have been why he'd wanted to drive by Boscobel. The rental had been his beginning in the city he now called home; the farmhouse would be the last place he'd live.

Avery had two hours to kill and he knew of few better ways to pass time than rifling through albums. One of his favorite record stores happened to be nearby, one he used to frequent when he stayed in the neighborhood. He started with the As, thumbing through covers absentmindedly but his mind was still on that house. Scarlett's house. Tawny. It was an inside joke, the name she used to call the house after they'd spent a weekend with stir sticks and roller brushes, trying to cover the light brown walls with colorful semi-gloss. That had been his only stipulation and he'd been happy with their paint job, even if Scarlett had chosen a shade of green for the living room that he didn't really like.

He realized that he'd always thought of the house as hers, even after she'd moved out. She was the one who'd made it feel like a home. He remembered how the two of them would sit out back in a pair of raggedy lawn chairs and stare up at Nashville's night sky, wondering when he'd get his break. She'd believed in the dream with everything she had. At the time he hadn't realized how much he'd needed her in his corner.

His fingers stopped on a Burning Spears album and he stared at the reggae artist on the cover. It was a rare find, one of JT's favorites and ironically the same album that his best friend once used to play over and over again, an endless loop of drums and horns. As always when he thought of JT, he pictured him with that wide smile he'd had since they were kids, the one their drummer used to say could coax the panties off a nun. He'd also been a huge part of that time in Avery's life. They'd spent hours in that same record store. They'd spent nights chugging beer and writing songs, frustrating days trying to get the good gigs, afternoons that wore into evenings in the garage on Boscobel in never-ending jam sessions that had been fueled mostly by stubbornness. Or stupidity. It had never occurred to any of them that they might not make it big. JT often said, "So close, man. We were so close." And they had been. That big break had always been damn near, hanging from fate like a carrot on a stick. Avery hadn't yet known how much he'd be willing to lose to grasp success. He'd give up his best friends, his love and the first home he had in Nashville. Looking back, he could see how very desperate he must have been to sell his soul for such a miserly prize.

Avery tucked the album under his arm and kept flipping through the records. His eyes scarcely skimmed the titles as his mind kept riffing into the past. Scarlett's mother had visited soon after they'd moved in and had very carefully and thoroughly criticized everything her daughter had done with the house. He'd always thought of Beverly as a kind of creeping ivy. Beautiful but insidious. It had taken weeks for Scarlett to stop cleaning and start smiling again and Avery told her the next time her mother came to town she'd have to stay with her brother. He acknowledged that was probably putting Deacon's sobriety in danger but he was tired of smelling bleach and tired of seeing Scarlett on her knees scrubbing the floor with a soapy sponge while her tears dripped to the linoleum.

He'd made it to the Ks before he grew bored and so he paid for the record, checking his phone as the cashier rang him up. It never failed to surprise him how much time one could spend in the pursuit of good music. He had time to walk to a coffee shop and return some calls as he savored a dark roast. He flicked through his contacts, one finger hovering over a number he hadn't dialed in months. JT. He should call and check in on him. Maybe he'd mail him the record as a gift after listening to it a couple times. Avery knew he owed the man far more than a secondhand 45. Nashville had been JT's idea to begin with. He'd had to convince Avery, over many a long distance phone call, that he should pick up and move from Mississippi and join him in Music City.

"We can make it here, man. I _know_ we can. What else are you gonna do?" JT had asked. "Go back to Ohio and work with your old man?" Avery didn't need much more convincing after that.

He stood up to leave, sliding the paper sleeve that held the album back under his arm. It was ironic that of the two of them, he was the one who'd stayed, who'd made it by every measure of success they would have used back then.

Traffic was light for a Saturday afternoon and soon he was back at Ava's house. Cadence did hug him then, running to wrap her arms around his legs as he rested a hand on her head.

"There's my girl," he said.

They said good-bye and the front door had hardly closed before she was gabbing about her afternoon with Ava. Avery listened as she talked about Ava's toys, her baby brother and her new puppy all in the short walk to the car in the driveway.

"I want a baby brother," she said.

Avery had just opened the door to lift her into her booster seat. _Why couldn't she just have asked for a puppy?_ He picked her up and settled her in the car. "Uh, we'll have to see."

"At first I wanted a puppy but Ava said they have worms. Do baby brothers have worms?"

She made a face that was a direct replica of her mother's and he chuckled. "Most of the time no." He adjusted the straps, buckling her in the seat. "But what if they do? Would you change your mind about wanting one?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, then opened them wide as the thought struck her. "I could get a sister!"

He'd been aiming for kitten. Or goldfish. "Let's talk to Mama about that." He closed the door but could hear her clapping her hands gleefully as if the deal had been struck. It made him think of the nickname Gunnar had given her when she was 2, the Tiny Tyrant. Usually that would have annoyed him, but Gunnar had said it after babysitting for them over a long weekend. When he and Juliette picked their daughter up the poor man was wild-eyed with exhaustion and his house looked as if a small explosive had detonated in the living room.

But that had been almost two years ago and Cadence was a sweet, smart little girl (yes, he was biased). She still had hints of a toddler's stubbornness, but Avery figured she'd come by that honestly considering her parents. Just that morning she'd refused to eat her breakfast sandwich because the bottom was "too cooked" and he'd ended up trading the top of his biscuit for the bottom of hers. It reminded him of Juliette and her steadfast refusal to eat the crusts of her sandwiches and he wondered if Gunnar's nickname might apply to both of them. And then he laughed because he could imagine his wife's reaction if he slipped up and called her that. "Not pretty," he muttered, still smiling about the thought.

He stopped at the Boscobel intersection again and glanced at the clock. It was nearing 4:00. Maybe too late for the open house but…he turned the wheel and headed down the street for the second time that day. He pulled over at the curb, thinking of the first time he and Scarlett had come by to see it. Times had definitely changed. Back then, he was driving a beloved jalopy that he'd regrettably sold when Juliette was pregnant with Cadence. Now he'd returned for what was very likely his final visit, this time with another petite blonde that he loved.

He had only reached the bottom step when his daughter started asking questions. "Whose house is this?" She kept one hand curled in the hair near his neck as he carried her.

"It used to be mine," he answered.

She turned around in his arms to fully take in the house. "When you were little?"

"I was younger, yes. But not a little boy."

"Daddy, did you have worms?"

"No, Cadence. I did not have worms."

The realtor met them as they approached the porch. The older woman swung the door open, smiling as she recognized him from earlier. "You came back," she said. "And you brought company."

Avery set his daughter down on the porch, all at once remembering how Scarlett had kept a few chairs and all kinds of potted plants spread out up there. It seemed all the more empty without them, sadly barren of the care she'd put into the house. "I'll be honest," he said. "I used to live here. I rented from Mr. Mason. Figured I'd just come by and see it one more time before…" It almost sounded silly as he said it out loud but the realtor nodded.

"I understand completely," she said. She propped the door open, inviting him to go in. "I'll spare you the spiel then."

He took Cadence by the hand and went inside, noting the changes since the last time he'd been there. Since the first time he'd walked through the door. How many coats of paint were burying those ugly brownish walls? The room was empty, eerily cavernous without any furniture but Avery could still picture Scarlett's books stacked beneath the window, her banjo hanging on the wall and the hideous flowered couch sitting in the middle of the room. It was all gone now but somehow she was still there. They both were, ghosts of their younger selves careening towards an inevitable end.

Cadence distracted him from his thoughts with another question. "Who else lived here?"

"A lot of people lived here. Aunt Scarlett and Uncle Will and Uncle Gunnar."

She twirled around in the center of the room, her dress billowing out into a blue circle. "And Mama?"

"No, baby. Mama never lived here."

His daughter stopped spinning to ask the next question, "Why not?"

"I didn't know your mother when I lived here." He eased his car keys into his pocket. Cadence looked struck, as if she'd never considered a time could exist that her parents hadn't known each other. Avery guessed that she probably hadn't. He took a few steps closer to her. "Your Uncle Gunnar and I used to play right here. I'd sit here," he pointed to the floor where a chair used to be.

After torching Scarlett's couch, Gunnar had replaced it with more modern furniture. Avery had been sitting right across from Gunnar and Zoey as they sat on the new couch and he'd watched them practically fall in love with each other while they were working on a song. Those were good times. Happy memories.

Cadence wandered towards the back of the house, to the bathroom and then the bedrooms. He didn't linger in the master, realizing that he'd slept with three women in that bedroom and he still had deep regrets over two of them. He'd been no more than willing prey for Marilyn, who hunted young male talent like a shrewd succubus. Layla was different but it'd always felt like a giant step in the wrong direction to be with her, especially in this house.

"Let's check out the kitchen," he said, closing the bedroom door behind him with a heavy click.

The kitchen was so small even his preschooler could walk the length of it in a few steps. "It's nothing special," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"No?" He laughed and crouched down to the floor, motioning her to come over. She sat on his knee and he held her still with one arm. "Who did you say makes the best pancakes in the whole world?"

"Auntie Scar."

"Right. I bet you didn't know she learned how to make them right here on that stove. Took her a long time to figure out how to make them fluffy on the inside with those good crunchy edges. One morning she was making some for breakfast and she flipped one right up in the air and it didn't come back down."

Cadence interrupted, a look of skepticism on her face. "Is that a truth, Daddy, or a story?"

 _What a cynic!_ "That's the gospel truth, baby girl. I had to climb up on a chair and scrape it off the ceiling."

"Did you eat it?"

"No, of course not. We threw it out."

She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "I bet it had worms in it."

"Cadence, what is it with you and these worms today?" He tickled her until she was giggling breathlessly and when he looked up the realtor was standing in the doorway. "Oh." he stood and forced his fingers through his hair. "Didn't see you there."

"No, it's okay. I didn't mean to startle you." She pointed at her wrist. "It's after 4:00."

"Okay, yeah. Sorry about that. We were just reminiscing a little bit and lost track of time."

She shook her head. "That's fine."

"Come on, Cadence." He took his daughter's hand and looked up at the woman again. "Thanks for letting us come in and see the place."

"Not a problem." She moved away from the door so they could walk through and they were almost to the entry when she spoke up. "Can I ask a question?"

Avery turned around. "Sure."

"Are you…" she glanced at Cadence and then back up at him. "Are you Avery Barkley?"

"Yes. Sorry." He stepped away from Cadence so he could go back and shake the woman's hand. "I guess I never said. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. I'm Debra. I wasn't sure before when you drove by and I didn't want to say anything in case you weren't but I thought I'd seen you in the magazines. And she looks so much like her mother." She gave his daughter another glance. "She's a beautiful child."

"Thank you."

"You know." She lifted her eyes back to his. "If you and your wife are looking for an investment property this would be a great house to buy. It's a good neighborhood, two units, passive income - but you already know that."

He shook his head. "Thanks, but we've got our hands full at the moment."

She shrugged. "I had to try," she said, no hint of shame in her voice.

"No worries." He nodded at her and then turned to leave, once again taking Cadence by the hand as he led her back outside. They gave the house one final look as they reached the sidewalk. The worn wooden fence and steep stairs, the porch that used to welcome him home. He'd loved in that house. He'd lost in that house. He'd been his most immature and his most hopeful within those walls.

Avery swore if he listened close he could hear Scarlett humming in the kitchen as she cooked, JT and the guys jamming in the garage out back, and Gunnar and Zoey working out a melody as they made eyes at each other. He liked how it sounded all together, varied and bold, like many winds gathering to reap the same harvest.


End file.
